Eleven Days and One Unspoken Night
by Kipsels
Summary: Captured and isolated, Liz and Donald are left helpless and must wait for rescue. Yet, as the days pass on, they face the complications of starvation, dehydration, and the thoughts of a single, unspoken night.
1. Eleven Days

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1

When Liz came to, it was in a slow, creeping sense of consciousness. Her entire body felt heavy and sluggish, her eyes kept shut by invisible locks and her limbs held down by invisible chains. Her head felt full of cotton balls, but not in the way she always associated with a head-cold. She couldn't move, and for a very long time she couldn't recall why that might have been an issue.

Then the pain came. The warming sensation in her joints became numb aches, from numb aches it became pins and needles over every inch of her body. They would resonate in waves from a singular source, somewhere between her neck and shoulder where it felt like she'd been bitten by a spider or stung by a very large wasp.

She groaned at the unpleasant sensations.

"Liz, can you hear me?" asked a familiar voice.

She heard the soft sound of feet and felt the presence of another body as they crouched over her and held her shoulder. They rolled her onto her back before they tried to lift her upper body from the ground. She felt like a lead weight.

"Ugh... what's happened?" She managed to garble out in question.

"It was all just an elaborate trap," they snarled, and when she opened her eyes she thought she could see a glimpse of blond.

"We've both been drugged, so I don't know how long it's been since we lost contact. Our only hope was that during the struggle the FBI was given enough to go on to find us... wherever we are."

Clarity returning, she matched the hair to the voice and knew exactly who was talking to her. Donald Ressler was keeping her balanced in an upright position as he relayed their situation to her.

Drugged. Captured. Kidnapped.

"When did you wake up?" She asked, the grogginess dissipating.

"A little while ago," He answered. It made sense, if they had been given the same dosage his higher body weight would have worked through it quicker.

She took a look at her surroundings, the darkness suggesting it was at the later end of dusk or early morning. Yet, when she looked higher, she could see a beaming light against the far wall, a single square of light that appeared to be a simple gap that acted as a window. The sky was a bright blue from what she could see, so the atmospheric lighting was just synthetic gloom. The window was too small to do much other than produce a replicated light square on the floor, reflected at the angle of the sun.

Other than that, the room was completely bare. No beds or bathroom, nor toilet or sink. Just bare cement.

Somewhere, she could hear the buzzing of what sounded like a private generator running, but she couldn't be sure if that was what the consistent sound was. It was loud enough to fill the room and brush at her ears, but not so loud or high in pitch that it could cause any major damage. Still, it seemed to add the desolation of the space.

How foolish they were to fall right into the Jailer's trap.

The Jailer was a Blacklister that did exactly what his moniker suggested. Rarely working on his own personal vendettas, he was the ideal candidate for hire if someone wanted somebody to go missing indefinitely. From ransoms to extended blackmail, the Jailer's fee obviously included a warm little cell without bathroom facilities or windows much larger than the size of one's fist.

When one's stay had been terminated, either from a failure of payment by those being blackmailed or by the Jailer's client themselves, he took sick pleasure in contorting their bodies with various archaic torture methods. Their flayed remains would turn up eventually, though without rhyme or reason they remained unsolved cases, unlinked and geographically spread.

Reddington had warned them that the man was a trickster, that just because they thought they had a trail didn't mean there wasn't a myriad of traps waiting for them should they follow. The Jailer had a small army of _jail guards _that worked from him, to be deployed at his word, but they _thought _they'd seen it all coming. Perhaps, years into the practice of striking the list made them cocky.

When they'd entered the old, decommissioned abattoir that their lead had taken them to, they had been backed up by the vans outside. Any altercation would be detected and acted upon immediately. That was how it should have played out. Instead, both she and Ressler had been duped and captured like sleeping lions.

From what she could now see, both of them had been stripped of their clothes, left in their singlets and underwear. It felt like a violation to her person, knowing they had removed their clothes while she had been out and unable to defend herself. Their captors had removed any chance of escape through their removal of weaponry and unessential clothing.

When she felt like she was able to stand, he helped her to her feet and together both agents took the time inspecting the room for weaknesses, yet apart from the structural exposure of the window hole the room really was just a giant slab of cement on all six sides. The door was metal, bullet proof and dead-locked from the outside. Liz realised then that their only option was to wait it out.

As silly as it sounded in her own head, and as much as she trusted Ressler with her life, she wished she didn't have to be stuck in close quarters with her one time paramour.

They both needed to get out.

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2

The previous day had finished without event, though she was surprised to find that the thick metal door had a slot at its bottom to slide in rations of stale bread and mildly gritty water. They'd conserved their food, knowing it would be a single meal a day.

When night fell sleep had been impossible, despite every part of her body telling her to conserve energy, relax, it's required to escape. But the ground was cold and rough as asphalt against her skin, and she hadn't slept on ground since a school camp decades ago. So she spent the night tossing and turning, until she ended up lying flat on her back and staring at the abyss that was the ceiling. Ressler hadn't slept any better, she'd heard him shuffle and huff all night, though there was one short period where she could hear his deep breathing and gentle snores. It didn't help that as time passed, she felt her body's desire itself to relieve itself, yet with no toilet in sight she ignored it through the night.

When the light encroached through the window and began its daily walk along the floor, she was glad she didn't have to pretend any longer.

And so the day began.

Ressler inspected the cement cell, searching corners and crevices for anything of interest even though they had already spent hours the day before doing the same thing. When she had asked him about it, he said he was looking for something to count the days with.

She stood, despite her aching bladder, and began to look with him for something that might fit the description.

"I don't think there's anything in here," She said, grimacing at the uncomfortable feeling in her lower abdomen.

He grumbled, "If only there was something sharp, like a piece of metal, or even chalk. Isn't it compulsory to give the condemned something to count with?"

His words made her reach to the back of her head, where her hair had remained tied up. "Wait, I think I have something," She said as she pulled the hair band out and let her hair fall loose around her shoulders.

She gave her elastic hair tie to him, the little metal join the only thing she could think of that might have been able to scratch at cement.

"It should work," He conceded, and set to work pulling the elastic out of the metal cylinder. She sat with him as he began to scratch away at the cement, drawing a fine line to mark the passage of their first night.

When their rations arrived, earlier than they had the day before, he cautioned her to eat slowly like she hadn't read about survival procedures, but she didn't call him out on it despite how irritated she felt. He needed to feel in control, and if him giving her helpful, albeit pointless hints were the way to go she would not begrudge him of it.

As the day went on and the light passed across the floor, Liz grew steadily more uncomfortable, her bladder painfully tight despite how hard she tried to ignore it.

She continued to stupidly try and hold her bladder, not wanting to embarrass herself and the lack of facilities made the thought incredibly unappealing. By midnight it had been irritating, but half way through the day it had become painful, leaving her squirming and squeezing her thighs together.

Ressler had sighed and stood up, walking towards a corner of the room.

"We're both going to have to do it, Liz. You can't hold it forever, and who knows how long we'll be stuck here," He reasoned.

She didn't look at him, but she could hear the sound of him urinating and she closed her eyes to try and forget that they were locked up in a tiny cell with no toilet.

When he finished up his business and went back to where he had been sitting before, he levelled her with a frank look.

"This is survival. Until rescue we have to get by, and that doesn't include making ourselves sick by poisoning ourselfs," He said.

Still, she squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable at the very idea of him being anywhere near her while she conducted such an act.

"You know I won't look," His lip curled slightly, "Not that it's anything I haven't seen before."

Liz startled at his comment, insulted at how blasé he was. He refused to even acknowledge that night from ever even happening for months, and then he throws all the silence away with one single vulgar sentence. She'd always considered him a gentleman, even in the beginning when he'd been nothing but terse with her, yet hearing him say something like that with a malicious look upon his face almost made her second guess him.

Almost. Two and a half years of partnership would have been a lot to look over for a single rudely put statement.

Feeling irritated and slightly sick, his offhand comments adding insult to injury, she finally stood up from her spot by the wall and conceded.

It was one of the rare times she wished she was a man. He didn't even need to take his pants off, just pull them down and away he went. But she had to go about the delicate business of pulling everything off and away, and squatting down and trying not to think about what a compromising position it was for her to be in, not only as a person but as a woman as well. Ressler's snide remarks had not assuaged any embarrassment she felt, if it hadn't actually aggravated it, even if she knew he'd be true to his words and not look.

She could only hope there weren't stuck in the room for much longer.

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3

On the third day, she woke up completely out of sorts. She felt odd all day, and while she knew it was hunger and thirst that was making her feel sick, there was something else about the lightheaded feeling she developed that concerned her.

It didn't take much more than a few hours before it reached its pinnacle.

"I think I feel faint," she said hazily, head beginning to droop without her permission.

Her vision had gone funny, like she was looking through a cylinder yet completely aware of how fuzzy the edges had gotten. She tried to open her eyes wider and take deeper breaths, well aware that sudden changes to one's vision were brought on by a lack of oxygen to the brain. She could see Ressler get up from his corner of the room, and watched him come forward to kneel in front of her. His fingers pressed against her chin and she could think of the two times he had done the same action.

The first time she had been on the verge of breakdown, the second was... decidedly happier.

"Tilt your head back for me," He murmured, helping her to do as he asked.

The crown of her skull met the wall and it was like falling into a fluffy, cloudy sleep.

When she came to, she was confused to find her face cupped between two warm, calloused palms. What was going on...who was waking her up? Her eyes opened and her vision returned like a fade in from a movie, the black fizzling and retreating for colour image.

"Liz, you just fainted," She heard Ressler's deep, authoritative voice and tried to focus her eyes on him, "I need you to lie down."

His hands left her face and with it so did some of the mugginess clogging her brain function. She braced her arms against the ground beneath her as his found her waist, and together they slowly pulled her away from the wall to lie flat along the floor. He began to shuffle back on his knees, his hands dragging down her body to her calves where he gripped and lifted. Setting her ankles to rest against one of his broad shoulders, she finally began to struggle.

"I'm fine, I feel fine. You don't need to do this," She protested, trying to remove her legs from his hold. Her muscles simply refused to move at a force she knew she was capable of producing.

Donald wasn't having a lick of it.

"You're as white as a sheet, Liz. Now stop moving around or else you might faint again."

She huffed and crossed her arms, uncaring if it made her look like a petulant child.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but from the intense way he was looking at her she knew that her colour wasn't returning quite as fast as he would have liked. In fact, he proceeded to lift her legs off his shoulder and higher in the air, which was a little less comfortable and brought back some inappropriate memories. Of course now she would recall the other time he had her legs in his arms and an intense look on his face. Her neck and cheeks warmed at the thought.

"Your colour is coming back," He said and Liz found herself glad he couldn't read minds.

Ressler gently eased her legs back down before he helped her to sit up. She hadn't noticed how cold or shaky her hands were until he began to rub them between his own, and she grimaced when she realised just how clammy they had become. Her back, too, was clinging to her shirt with sweat.

Every time she tried to speak he shushed her, and continued to work methodically to return her body to an acceptable state. But there was no sugar he could give her, no water for her to drink, and he simply did the best he could to get her warm.

When their rations were dropped through the door with the half pass of the light, her cellmate instructed her to eat and halved his own serving before passing it to her. Liz tried to protest, because they were both hungry and she didn't want him fainting on _her_, but he gave her a look that would have made lesser men shiver in fear.

She dismally accepted the crusted bread and tried to ignore the headache that was blooming.

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4

The lethargy was starting to set in aside the hunger, and Liz began to find it hard to focus on anything. Ressler hadn't spoken a word since her fainting spell last night and he had moved so little from his position reclined against the opposite wall.

The room already smelt of piss and faeces, but any embarrassment rolled over from the first few days was forgotten because there wasn't any point trying anymore. Nobody was coming in to clean their mess and they certainly weren't going to be moved, but Liz reasoned that in another day or so they'd have become so accustomed to the smell it'd be forgotten.

She hoped that it wouldn't be the case because they wouldn't be here in another day.

The square of light passed in its arc along the floor, particles of dust dancing in its beam. When it had passed half way and the loud burring continued uninterrupted by the scrap of the small door hatch opening, it registered that something was off. Light was no true indicator of time's passage, but it had been roughly accurate up until this point.

"Why haven't they passed us yet?"

Her cell mate frowned, his fair brow furrowing as he looked towards the door. He stared, and stared, his intense concentration never wavering once. And, as if he had commanded those outside to serve to his will, the little slot opened and a tray was slid through.

She immediately knew something was missing. The tray that usually held the dregs of stale food now only kept two cups filled with plain, slightly dirty water. They turned towards each other in silent communication, but they both knew what this was.

The Jailer was going to starve them out.

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5

It was silent. The encompassing whirr had stopped so suddenly that both agents lifted themselves up to look at the door.

Liz glanced over at her partner, who had pressed a finger to his lips in the universal symbol for silence. She stayed where she was, yet every muscle was prepped for quick movement, and watched as he got to his feet and crept up to the door. Ressler kept himself pressed up against it, listening to the world outside their room for any indication of the current situation.

"Something's happened," He breathed out, "I can hear running, someone's calling out orders..."

"The Jailer?" She asked.

"I can't tell. The door's blocking almost everything, there's no clarity," He shrugged, before turning back to listen.

Abruptly, the little slot at the bottom of the door flew open and a tray with their two cups of water on it was pushed through in a rush. She leapt across the room to catch them, half of it already spilt and unsalvageable.

"Must be something bad, days not half way through yet," She said, moving the cups away from the door.

Neither of them voiced it, but she knew both of them were nurturing a tiny glimmer of hope that Reddington and the rest of the FBI had finally found them.

They sat nearer the door than they had since they'd first woken up in the dank space, sipping their drinks slowly to not disturb their uncomfortable stomachs. When silence reigned and their cups emptied, she grew worried and then despondent, understanding that whatever spooked them off had not found them or hadn't cared to look.

Hours passed and nothing happened. The guards did not return, the whirring did not start up once more.

It was bone chillingly quiet, and that was the most disconcerting thing of all.

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6

Nothing happened that day. No guards returned to keep the door watched, no tray was delivered to them. The incessant buzzing stayed absent, and there was no sign of life to be sensed outside their little box.

Nothing happened that day, except that their hunger grew, their levels of dehydration rose, and all they had were their own thoughts left to irritate them.

The room gradually became cooler after the light of day fell, forcing her to question whether the room had been heated previously and that the sound had been that of a generator, or if it was just uncommonly cold. The apparent absence of sound that continued was troubling, as their keepers had now been missing for over a full 24 hours, but the dropping temperature was the issue they had to face presently.

It was like the atmosphere was trying its very best to match their growing anxiety.

She tried to conserve heat by curling up as close to the wall as she could. It did little good, as shivers began to rush through her limbs, unwelcomely bare to the environment as they were. It didn't help that the window, which had been a small relief and a measure of the passage of time yet easy enough to ignore, had allowed for the cold air to swirl in from the outside and drop around her.

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the chattering of her teeth, willing herself to sleep despite it all.

She felt him lie down beside her, heard him shuffle inwards until his chest was pressed against her back and his own body heat began to diffuse across the gap and warm her. She thought he'd leave it there; send her a message that this was strictly platonic, for the purpose of keeping each other warm. She expected him to ignore the implicit intimacy of such a position.

But when his arm came around her middle and his thighs mimicked hers by curling up against them, she wondered if sometimes he wished they could go back to that one night just as much as she did.

She tried to ignore the feeling of his thumb absently stroking the cotton of her singlet, the heat he spread with a single touch.

Sleep was easier to capture that night than she had anticipated.

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7

While sleep had come easy, it been sporadic at best through the night, as she hadn't been able to bury to growing anxiety welling up inside her, nor could she quiet her body's call for fluids. Her thoughts parried back and forth, back and forth. They'd never get out of here, they'd die in this hell-hole, not entirely sure what had happened to their captors and jail guards. It was only when her partner distracted her with a shift of his posture or a tightening of his grip on her torso that she would be lulled back to sleep.

With first light they had parted to their separate sides of the room, and she had begun to fidget. Her nails brushed at the skin of her forearms and her foot twitched to the _scratch, scratch, scratch _of the tiny metal cylinder against the wall.

He seemed off today, and not because he seemed to have the uncanny ability to ignore the compromise his made to their relationship last night. It was because his eyes kept tracking the same path from the floor in front of his outstretched legs to the metal door. He'd shake his head, rub his eyes, and try to drag his attention away from whatever he found so appealing about the door.

She kept an eye on him, weary of his odd behaviour.

When he repeated the same pattern once more, he dragged his attention away from everything by instead putting his effort into massaging his left thigh. She knew his leg still bothered him, even years after the incident. It was something he could deftly ignore, but he had once said it got sore on particularly frigid days or when he overexerted himself. It had been particularly cold last night, even as they had snuggled together to keep warmth, so it was highly likely that it was still aching today.

But, as his fingers dug deep into the muscle and pulled, leaving the skin streaked white and then red, it didn't look like any kind of therapeutic massage she'd heard of. When his nails came in to play and the skin looked more and more bruised, Liz crawled over to his space to halt him.

She grabbed at his wrist, "Stop it. You're hurting yourself."

His eyes snapped up to hers.

"I need to get the door open," He said, as though it made perfect sense,

She looked down at his leg, confused. How was his _leg _going to help him get the door open?

"You know the door is shut solid. There's no way out from this side," She reasoned.

He shook his head, "Its open. I just need something to get it open more."

It slowly dawned on her what he meant. His bones had been surgically repaired with a metal rod, but surely he wasn't thinking about how he could use it, because that was simply impossible. Unless... he wasn't hallucinating, was he?

He shoved her hand away and stood, moving towards the door where he brushed his fingertips along the edges, feeling for gaps that just weren't there. It was mostly harmless, and she didn't think there was anything she could do if he was in a proper state.

She jumped from her seat when she heard his hand make contact with the door for the first time, and she jumped into action when she heard it the second time. She came up behind him and tried to pull him away from the door to prevent him from injuring himself further.

Her arms banded around his entire torso as he struggled against her. He could easily overpower her, but she held tight until his elbow made contact with her ribs and she tumbled backwards. Her elbows scraped at the impact and her side was sorely bruised, but she scrambled back up onto her feet to continue pulling him away from his bashing of the door. Once again she grabbed at his arms and pulled, her nails tearing through his skin and he inhaled sharply against the stinging pain. Using the momentary pardon she was given, she let out all of her frustration and anger out in a single, hard slap that sent his whole head reeling to the side.

"STOP!"

His eyes burned holes through her body, and hers burned back. Yet in the loaded silence something else broke through.

_Rain...!_

"It's raining," She gasped, her attention away from the potentially dangerous situation she found herself in as she rushed up to the window. She could see the streaks of rain drops fall across the sky, pouring down.

She scrambled around to find the cups from the last day they'd received rations, and then proceeded to try and shove it through the window. It didn't fit without being pushed sideways, and any of its contents would have been lost when she pulled it back. Incensed, she threw the cup away and shoved her hand through, palm cupped and facing upwards.

It felt heavenly against her finger tips.

As she dragged the small well back through the slot and brought it up to her mouth, she felt like she'd been parched from paradise. Her dry tongue moistened and her stomach gurgled in reaction. Just as she was about to go for a second mouthful, she realised Donald was still standing by the door, watching her.

"Don, it's raining! It's raining and we can drink," She pleaded, and she watched the deranged look fall off of him like the rain outside on walls.

He came up and she moved aside to let him push his bigger hand through the window, watched the same expression that must have been on her face blossom on his.

Well into the night, they took turns squeezing their bruised hands and wrists through the tiny window, quenching their thirst on the small mouthfuls of water they caught in their cupped palms.

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8

Ressler stopped counting the days. The metal cylinder was nothing but a bent bit of flint now, but even so he probably realised how fruitless it was to count for something they weren't sure was going to happen. It was obvious now that whatever had spooked their captors on the fifth day had driven them away for good, and if it hadn't been for the blessed rain the night before they'd be struggling to survive another day. It hadn't been enough to assuage their thirst, having tapered off before they had their fill, but it had been _enough._

His whole demeanour had changed. It was like he was reciting the facts on chances of survival in his head, each file a little worse and made their situation a little more bleak. It had been eight days, and not once had she seen his body language appear so defeated. No doubt he was feeling off after his hallucinogenic episode yesterday, but she didn't think he needed to feel embarrassed about it, it wasn't as though he could control his brain, much as he liked to think he could.

"Red's looking for us," She promised, hoping to bolster his spirits.

His head turned to the side, but she could see he looked unconvinced.

"You're his only priority Liz, we both know it; we've known it for years. He's working to rescue _you_, and that's all he cares about."

"Have you forgotten when he saved you from bleeding to death, or does your memory have a yearly time limit on it?" She realised she sounded sharper than she had intended, after seeing his mildly shocked expression.

"Of course I remember. I acknowledge that he is working hard to locate us," His sharp blue eyes told of unspoken words.

_But sometimes, bargains need to be made. My life for yours, Lizzie. You know what he'd choose._

Ressler and Reddington's relationship had always been one of begrudging acceptance; Red like a sly cat trying to bate the mouse, while Donald tried his best to walk his way around any verbal traps left for him. It was a balancing act, never in perfect harmony but neither did one of them ever quite outweigh the other.

If she was less humble, she might have thought that she was the lynchpin that kept the working relationship between the two men from turning into a disaster. But that was before, when she thought she knew that Donald had a soft spot for her, nurtured close to his heart.

After that night, Liz had expected a relationship to evolve outside of work. She had expected dates, walks in the park if it was a weekend, or movie nights where they sat together on the couch and pretended that they weren't inching closer together. Things that, she thought bashfully, would bring butterflies to her tummy like a teenager with her first crush.

It would have been perfect simplicity in a world full of chaos and lies.

But it hadn't worked out like that. In the course of a single day, the warmth that Ressler had displayed in the morning had snapped frozen, and Liz just didn't know where to find a pickaxe big enough to find it again. When she came into work she expected a subtle look her way, instead she was greeted with a cold shoulder and glares. It had been déjà vu of their first few weeks as partners. It hadn't even occurred to her, in the months since that night, that Reddington might have had something to do with his sudden change in attitudes.

She couldn't help wondering about it now.

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9

He had moved so quickly and so suddenly that for a split second Liz thought he _must _have heard something. That where his head had been resting had picked up the gentle vibrations of thudding feet and rescue.

She should have known better.

Between one blink and the next he had jumped up from his position prostrate on the ground and onto his hands and knees. His head dropped between his shoulders and he took slow measured breaths. He did not move, did not relax a single muscle that had bunched up in preparation, the only thing quaking his body were his own shuddering breaths. And he held it.

Just when she was about to open her mouth and speak for the first time, to enquire if this was some strange voodoo survival technique she had never heard about or if he was suffering from another hallucination (Oh God, oh God, please don't be hallucinating, please pleaseplease), she was transfixed by the sight of his entire stomach contracting into a perfect concave arc.

The horrid, sick inducing sounds followed. She found herself horrified yet completely transfixed as he retched, unable to bring up anything other than bile as his body had nothing else to give. It became a cycle, as she imagined the burning sensation of stomach acid clawing up his oesophagus, irritating and viscous, only to cause his body to react and attempt to remove it from his system again. It was like a positive feedback loop with no end until he was simply too tired for the convulsions to continue.

Eventually, he dropped to his forearms and hung his head down, unable to keep himself up and unable to stop the weak, crackling moans from crawling out. His neck had flushed red; the capillaries under his skin had burst under the pressure of the spasms, creating a crimson rash along his skin that no doubt travelled down his entire chest.

The light was three quarters gone when Liz found herself in much the same position, brought on by dehydration and the visual influence she'd received. Ressler having quieted, she knew his sunken eyes were watching her while his expression remained unfocused and distant.

Night had fallen long hours before her body collapsed, her cheek falling into the sticky mess she'd brought up.

Then, finally, _sleep_...

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10

Her hands clawed weakly at the cement, gripping at nothing as she pulled herself across the room and up from the ground in tiny, exhaustive movements. Her heart was beating faster than it should have been, and sometimes she wondered if it was beating at all. When her back finally came to rest against the wall, her eyes were ready to roll into the back of her head and draw her into the welcome depths of oblivion.

If there was one thing that could be said of her, it was her sheer determination. People picked up on her often problematic ability to be acutely empathetic to others, but those who knew her well knew that Elizabeth was the closest synonym one could find to overzealous chutzpah. It showed in her work life, her home life, wriggled its way into every facet of her existence, and it was not going to fail her now. So when her vision tunnelled and her very thoughts grew fogged, she held on to consciousness as her nails bit into the skin of her palms.

When it passed, she drew her eyes away from the little window of hope towards the man sitting motionless beside her. Every so often, his body was wracked with bouts of shivers, and she thought him worse than her until she realised she was much the same. His head finally turned, and his eyelids fluttered open to reveal those blue, blue eyes. Those eyes she knew to be full of fire and promise, of unrestrained anger and duty, of explosive passion and lust.

When they looked at her now, they were as dull and lifeless as her own sense of hope.

And even the most determined of people crumbled.

The shivers turned into bone-rattling quakes, her breath tumultuous and then erratic. It was then she realised she was crying, her entire soul caught up in great, thunderous sobs even as her eyes had no tears to spill. She never looked away from him, not when she cried out in agony for their situation, their doom. Her voice cracked and pain seared through her unused throat, the stretch of her jaw splitting the skin of her lips and her swollen tongue, yet she was unable to stop.

And then, amidst the salty tears that never fell and the rosy cheeks that were sunken and dry, she heard him whisper.

"Lizzie..."

"...I'm so sorry..."

"...For...everything."

They were going to die in that dark, barren little room, and she just wanted the peace to finally dawn.

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11

Day and night were no different, passing seamlessly from one to the other. Somewhere during the passage of the hours, both occupants of the room had sunk down to lie side by side on the floor.

Neither of them had needed to relieve themselves in days, their bodies trying to conserve what little water it could. Their kidneys had been reduced to its secondary function of conservation, toxins slipped past to remain in their bloodstreams, creating dangerous imbalances that would soon affect the ability of their very cells to do their job.

It wouldn't be that long now, no more than 24 hours on the clock.

The act of opening her eyes felt like a physical stress on her entire system, but if she was going to die in the dark she did not want to do it staring into darkness.

He was still breathing, chest rising and falling beneath thin cotton. His once pristine hair was greasy and matted, his pale skin ghostly except for the pinpricks of red that speckled his neck and jaw. His lips, split and peeling, might have been tinted blue as his body regressed into shock, but everything was just grey to her now. It was a selfish wish, she knew, but she wished that he looked as perfect as he had that day. That day that changed everything.

That day that now had no hope of ever being repeated.

If he had looked as beautiful as he had then, maybe she would have been able to pretend that they weren't dying, forgotten in some little cell only to be discovered months later (or never). Maybe she could pretend that Red hadn't failed them. Maybe she would be able to pretend that they were simply lying in bed amongst the crisp white sheets, and he was only dozing in the light of dusk, and when she finally went she wasn't leaving the world for good but only succumbing to the sweet coaxing of sleep.

Maybe...Maybe...Maybe...

His eyes opened, met hers. A million words said and gone in one look.

With the last dregs of his energy, his hand felt out for hers and threaded their fingers together in a weak embrace. His hand might have been cold, but if it was hers was too and she could no longer tell the difference or feel enough to panic about what that might mean.

They held each other's gaze in the darkness.

Darkness

Darkness

Darkness

And then...

_Light._

_._

_._

_._

'_Lizzie, Donald... You're safe..._

_...Looks like I got here without a minute to spare_

_Now let's get you two fixed up, shall we...'_

_._

_._

_A/N: Whew, that was a bit of a rollercoaster. I thought I'd challenge myself and write these two in a dire situation set in a Tom Keenless future, and what could be more dire than starvation and dehydration? It turned out longer than I expected and well, maybe I'm just mean._

_Sadly I haven't seen the new episode yet, being in Australia it's likely it won't be aired for something like six months. Luckily for me, the internet does have its utilities._

_There really isn't much else I have to say, but I hope you enjoyed it. Leave me a note and tell me about it._


	2. Recovery

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1

The septic smell of the hospital irritated his nostrils; the sterilized environment did nothing to hide the hospital's true nature as a cesspit for breeding disease. These things had never been any particular bother to him before, but then he wasn't the one in the bed this time.

Through the observation window, he could see inside the room and look on at the two occupants. The beds sat parallel against the opposite wall, the space between filled with monitors and screens that blinked their status periodically. It was only poetic justice that they share the room they recovered in just as they had shared another on the brink of death.

He slipped into the room unnoticed.

He watched as her chest rose and fell, steady under the paper thin gown, indicative of the deep, restful sleep she was in. It was her face that told another story. Pallid and drawn, the translucent skin of her eyelids was purplish under the lights, her pert lips cracked and blood dry against the seams. She was the very picture of the wounded soldier, and she was so very, very lucky to be alive.

They had identical bruises blooming along the delicate flesh of their inner forearms from where the intravenous needles had been inserted, the skin tight and veins narrow. Saline solution and a variety of necessary nutrients drained directly into their deprived bodies.

Of the two, Agent Ressler had been comparably in poorer health from what he'd gathered from his perfunctory glance at the medical notes. His body was larger, required more energy and by simply being male had less fat deposits to use, which lead to the inevitable muscle wastage that had occurred. When he looked over at the man in question, he wondered if Ressler had readily acknowledged just how badly the operation could have turned before it had. Just the thought made him feel bitter.

Lizzy was a necessary risk, but Donald was just a liability. The man could be as aggressive as a Spanish bull on a rampage, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the senior agent met the proverbial matador that would bring him down. Certainly, he was a source of endless entertainment and had garnered a few instances in which Reddington had admired his tact, but in the end he was just another lowly pawn on a chess board far bigger than he could dare to imagine.

That was why he had to snub the relationship between the two of them before it even truly began. His timing had been off, and he knew how it had hurt and confused Lizzie, but he was saving her from even greater hurt that would inevitably come once Donald was dealt with. Yet, it was Donald that had kept her alive through it all, an ordeal that could have been completely mentally destructive if faced alone, just as he had in the past. Red would have to thank him for that.

The machines continued to wink ghoulishly and make their synthetic sounds, affirming that both of them were alive and safe. Certain that no one would die during the night, Reddington left as quietly as he had come.

.

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2

Admittedly, he'd been scared he'd lost them both. When the FBI had bumbled their way through the rescue, they'd spooked the Jailer's little crew, who had left naught a trail to track them by. For five days they hadn't a clue where to look for the two missing agents, and even he found himself scrounging for loose ends.

He'd panicked.

With every hour that passed, his careful control on the situation began to splinter and pierce at his psyche, and he knew that they were running too close to _too late. _He had scrambled frantically, flown across the world and back again, using every contact he had to try and salvage the botched assignment before it was all over.

When he finally held conference with the wretched warden himself, it had taken all his years experience to appear as jovial as possible. Striking a deal had been remarkably easy; The Jailer was a man driven by monetary value, and the holding of two FBI agents wasn't making him any. Neither could he return to any of his haunts until things had cooled off, so Reddington offered him an out in exchange for the location of Lizzie and Donald.

If the jet that was taking the Jailer en route to South America went off radar somewhere above the Bermuda Triangle, he certainly didn't claim to have anything to do with it.

He'd went to get them himself, the ill will between him and the rest of the FBI having grown exponentially over the passing days since contact with the two had gone black. The building was old stone masonry while the insides were refurbished with 'modern' cement linings, and he didn't feel like visiting the basement to see if the décor matched. When he finally reached the cell they occupied, his relief to finding them both still breathing had been palpable.

Today, he could see that they were awake yet sluggish; still connected to catheters and IV's and oximeters as they were. A nurse was in the room, helping Lizzie as she tried to steady her hands and feed herself. It looked soft and bland, whatever it was, but no doubt nutritious. At least she was being decently cared for by the notoriously lacking public hospital system.

Ressler too was sitting up, his head turned away from the inside of the room, focused as he was on the large window. It had been dreary all day, the clouds low and grey, but it looked like it had only just started to drizzle and the younger man was unwaveringly captivated by the sight of it. His hand twitched, fingers unfurling yet not quite able to lift itself from the crisp white blankets.

When Reddington went to the reception desk and requested the window be opened in the room, the young woman looked bewildered but nonetheless complied after a few minutes of careful cajoling on his behalf.

He thought they might appreciate the sound of running water.

.

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3

They were sitting up, pottering around on their mending limbs and making good use of the armchairs in the room. When he came to visit, they were talking while they watched the small television hanging from the wall and doing everything in their means to ignore the ordeal they had only just endured. It was hard to believe that if any stranger looked in that room, they wouldn't have a clue that the occupants had been two steps short of death. It would be the same when they finally stepped out on to the streets and became two figures in an ocean of stories that are never told. Perhaps that was the irony of life.

He'd been hoping to catch Lizzie while Donald had been sleeping, but they seemed intent on spending their newfound freedom together in the waking world. Reddington was no stranger to deep feelings of camaraderie, knew the bonds of shared experience.

He could tell that they had both been treated to a decent wash now that they could successfully hold themselves up, their hair gleaming freshly under the halogens. Likewise, the bruises on their bodies had begun to fade to yellow, and the plumpness had returned to Lizzie's cheeks. While still apparently weak, it was good to see that their vitality was returning to them.

He'd discretely hid himself away when Harold Cooper entered the corridor, no doubt intent on speaking to his recuperating subordinates. The man's imposing figure towered over the heads of others, yet he was so focused on his destination he hardly glanced in Red's direction. When he ducked inside the room, he moved a distance that still allowed him to discretely observe their interactions through the window. In the end, it didn't merit the bother, as Cooper simply stood before the two, relaxed and unassuming in his posture. When he clasped his hand over Ressler's shoulder in a comforting gesture, Reddington knew this visit was less about business and simply because he cared.

How sweet.

When Cooper left the room as swiftly as he came, Reddington caught Donald as he leant over, whispering into Lizzie's ear with a cheeky smile. At her answering smile and her efforts to tiredly swat him away, Red decided that his little talk could wait another day.

Before he left, he saw something that had been missed by his radar the entire time. Their hands hung discretely in the space between them, clasped together in a gentle embrace. Their soft smiles suddenly gained clarity, and Reddington mournfully wished he'd left Ressler to die in that cell if only to save his Lizzie from the future.

Still, it occurred to him that perhaps there truly was some merit in _fate. _

.

.

A/N: Well, I told myself I wouldn't write Reddington because I know I'm not ready to take on such a powerful personality, but then I went and ignored my inner voice anyway. I hope you enjoyed this little follow up, it distracted me enough through the hell that was the week I've just had. Apologies for any errors, as per usual.

There may be another small piece, shorter yet, after this. Maybe, I'm still deciding haha.


	3. Relief

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0

The heat of the sun was pleasantly warm against his skin as he stood watching Liz peg their clothes to the line. She'd already called out to him, promising retribution if he didn't come over and help her, but he risked her wrath so he could stay where he was and simply admire the view.

Sometimes he wanted to smack himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, because surely this feeling of domesticity wasn't _real._

When they had woken up in the hospital weak, ill, but _alive,_ there really wasn't any going back for them. They'd never actually spoken about their mutual decision, partly because he certainly wasn't capable of deep and meaningful conversation beyond a certain point without resorting to some sort of deprecating joke, and partly because he was certain that Liz, despite her open nature, never really forgave him for the personal snub of his rejection.

But despite the lack of words to reaffirm it, they knew.

In hindsight, he knew his kneejerk reaction to Reddington's little intervention had been ignorant and short-sighted. After Don had spent that very first night with her, Reddington had confronted him about his budding relationship before a single day had even passed. Of course, he hadn't outright said anything in regards to Liz, but his antagonising word choice rang true. It didn't seem to matter what his heart was saying, and no matter how many times he repeated to himself that Red would never come between him and another woman ever again, he couldn't hide from the logic in his words.

Could he really involve himself with this woman, knowing the risks and inevitabilities of their work? Did he truly believe that they'd both come out of this unscathed and able to live that standard dream of a happy family and the white picket fence?

At the time, he didn't.

(He still didn't.)

But then, Don hadn't realised that he'd destroyed his own chance at happiness and hurt Liz in the process. Keeping his distance had been the hardest thing he'd had to do, returning to a cold civility that he hardly remembered from when they'd first met. It must have said something disparaging about his character that he had to face the inevitability of death for him to realise letting an opportunity go on the basis of what-ifs was an opportunity wasted.

Even now, it was all just a little bit too surreal. They were way past the stage of relearning the art of bed sharing, yet waking up to the warmth of another body still hit too close to home with how lonely their line of work could be. Sharing the burden of cooking, cleaning and case files all felt a little too good to be true, sometimes.

"Hey, if you're planning on staying over there I'll just leave your clothes in the basket and let them go mouldy," She said, though her glare was short lived and harmless.

Her hair was piled up in a mess atop her head, showing off her neck to the perfumed spring air. Even with it well past midday, she was still dressed in the singlet and cotton bottoms she'd worn to bed the night before, typical of a lazy Sunday whenever they had one. She looked so perfectly mussed and relaxed that it was always a little hard to believe that this woman could be so stern when put in a suit. He admired the Liz from work, but he was in love with the one he saw before him.

He also loved just how thin her shirt was.

"Might be worth it," He teased, "It's too good a view to pass up from here."

She tutted in reproach and flung a freshly washed sock at him. He kept his smile to himself as he picked the sock up and walked over to her, ready to receive the cluster of pegs she was holding out for him.

It really was hard to believe this was all happening.

Even with the long months growing longer, they still faced the lasting effects of their imprisonment; he internalised everything while Liz was more vocal in venting her fears to the world and Don had yet to figure out which method was working out best. Just as his leg would be a constant reminder of the reason he owed his life to Reddington, their eleven day isolation had left its mark on every single day and it was not something one forgot.

The months that followed their release had beenfull of medical scares, more so on his side of the field than Liz's. His body hadn't returned to a balanced homeostasis quite as quick as anyone would have liked, spiralling to a point that where there was fear he'd have to be tacked to a dialysis machine. Thankfully things started to improve, but he kept a strict diet to prevent any further degeneration. That meant no more late night fried chicken runs and Liz making sure he didn't eat too many of the salted peanuts he liked so much.

But despite the lingering health effects, it was the little things, incongruous yet inconsequential, that made him wonder what it really meant to recover from trauma. Reaching to hold her hand had evolved to so much more than just a sign of affection. She made a habit of leaving the light on in the ensuite during the night, the glow piercing the darkness through the crack underneath the door.

He kept the windows open when it rained.

Though, in all seriousness, Don felt the strangest part about it had been when Liz found peace and rediscovered herself through gardening. It was a luxurious hobby that their unforgiving work schedule hardly accommodated, but when they had a moment to themselves she would be outside, tending to the small plot of flowerbeds that bordered the porch. She really did have a knack for it, though Donald's thumb was far purpler from stabbing himself with a trowel than it ever would be green.

At one point, she had become so obsessed over perfecting her garden that she would stay up late into the night, digging away in the dark. They hadn't been officially living together then, but when he had woken up in the middle of the night to find her shuffling in the dirt of the backyard like a clumsy burglar, it had lead to its inevitable arguments.

Despite the frustrations it had created between them, he never loved it quite as much until spring had arrived and the daffodils were breaching their final months while the pansies and foxglove had begun to bloom in clusters of bursting colour. The soft blush of pinks and purples contrasted against the warmth of the yellows and he could forgive her for the many hours she'd spent buried in the dirt.

He still drew the line at hanging pots, though (his head was target enough without her putting _more _obstacles for him to navigate, for god's sake.)

And while he well knew that he was hardly the most romantic fellow in the world, there was something about seeing her stand there with a warm smile against a backdrop of flowers that tickled a place inside him he'd long forgotten existed.

"Less staring, more pegging, please."

"Yes, _dear._"

.

.

.

Years later, she'd admit to him that gardening helped to remind her that she'd never be boxed inside a room ever again, and the world was just outside their back door and the sun was still shining.

For the sake of sentimentality, he tastefully ignored the comment she made about his hair being bright enough to replace the sun entirely.

Oh, the things he did for this woman.

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A/N: I don't actually know if the above mentioned flowers grow well in any kind of American environment, though I'm almost certain they probably would. Not that I think anyone would be judging me on any kind of horticultural level.

And so, this be the end (I think). I wanted to end on a lighter note, and with uni starting back in three days and my laptop still AWOL, I also wanted to get it out now.

I hope you enjoyed this little journey I've taken you on, and despite my often blatant ignorance of basic grammar rules, I thank you all for your positive comments and feedback!


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